


Small Deaths

by SystemGlitch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14131638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SystemGlitch/pseuds/SystemGlitch
Summary: Short fic and drabbles based on kink meme prompts over on our tumblr, @glitchinthesystemspiderbyte, generally between 500 and 1,000 words. Some take place within the context of the Glitch series, others are general one-offs.If you'd like to submit a prompt, the meme post ishere.





	1. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By K.
> 
> Prompts: bondage, lingere/outfits, multiple orgasms.

Leather presses into the pale skin of her wrists and Widowmaker can feel something within her crack. It’s a hairline fissure, this pang of snarling, ravenous want that she has swallowed and pushed aside for days now, focusing instead on their otherwise unremarkable undercover mission. But that fault was and is there, and it yearns, and she can feel the static warmth coursing beneath its surface each time that dull bite reminds her that she is in no way in control. Not now. Not tonight.

Sombra’s touch is fastidious and featherlight, informed by years of consoles and holodecks and craftily picked pockets. With those, her attention is often divided, split between two, three, sometimes four separate hard light screens; now, her focus is trained entirely on  _her_ in a way that feels as utterly obscene as it does affectionate. Sombra is  _provoking_  that want, exploiting Widowmaker’s subtle, involuntary reactions. She treats each hitch of the sniper’s breath as a discovery, each failed struggle against the cuffs securing her wrists to the metallic slat headboard as an invitation to continue. It is a tease - and an agonizing one at that - but Widowmaker knows it is also a promise: that her patience, a constant now worn dangerously thin, will be rewarded.

She waits and watches, golden eyes following the the hacker’s fingers as she opens her dress shirt button by button, and the way Sombra smiles when she meets her gaze tells her she has failed to hide the gnawing expectancy that makes her arch ever so slightly into the faint brush of the other woman’s fingertips. She can’t quite recall how they got here - when the week of glances across a bustling casino floor became  _this_  - and she doesn’t care to. All there is is Sombra and her infuriating crooked smile as she pushes her shirt open and smirks at the bustier beneath it: a cagey lace and mesh number she only deigned to wear because it matched the garter belt and sheath combination required of their mission.

She assured herself it was necessary, but Lord knows she had other, infinitely more demure options.

Then again, the Lord had nothing to do with it.

At first, Sombra says nothing, acknowledging her surprise by pressing a kiss just above the edge of one cup. It, like everything the spy has given her tonight, is maddening: a languid offering of soft lips and heady warmth ended as quickly as it began, leaving her with nought but the twist of need coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of her stomach. When she pulls away, Widowmaker thinks she can almost -  _almost_  - breathe. Then she presses a muscled thigh between her legs and the sudden pressure makes her curl her fingers around the metal slats and whine the hacker’s name.

“You are  _exceptionally_ terrible tonight,” she observes, voice tight in her chest. It sounds like she feels, taut and desperate.

“Am I, now?” Sombra replies, feigning innocence as she leans forward and pretends to check the double-ended clip securing the assassin’s arms behind her head. This, of course, is part of the act, and she leans into that same leg as she does so, and for a moment Widowmaker considers whether she’d rather kill her than fuck her.

“ _Yes_ ,” she growls, the word shoved between her teeth. Sombra is unrelenting, and it is all she can do to writhe against her and chase the faint pleasure doing so provides.

“ _Lo siento, araña_ ,” Sombra grins. “I can be nice, too.”

She underscores the statement with a kiss; this time, however, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she invites Widowmaker to give voice to her want, to set her teeth against her bottom lip and savor the hiss of breath it provokes. It is a small allowance, and Widowmaker can feel that crack growing, boring a crater in her uncanny composure. Every brush of skin, every vain attempt to touch the woman murmuring lurid promises against the line of her throat feels like a wedge in that fractious line, and she has never wanted to feel something be broken so badly. Part of her wants to tear the other woman apart, to be free of her restraints and find beautiful recompense in bruised thighs and scrabbling hands; another part entirely wants to be the one to experience it herself.

She is grateful, then, when Sombra’s hand drifts between them, clever fingers slipping past the hem of her underwear before she can even process their presence; she is grateful when she teases her with firm, insistent circles around her clit and laughs quietly at the sharp prick of her hips. Widowmaker tries, fails, tries again to bite back the gasp the other woman’s touch evokes, tries not to whimper as she runs a finger against her in a slow line full of promise. There are only reflexes and reactions here, instincts she regularly controls with inhuman precision; restrained as she is, there is no choice but to allow herself be subject entirely to them. It is a strange release she is never aware she needs until it is presented to her; a catharsis found exclusively in abandon.

“I forgot to tell you,” Sombra starts, breath warm against the sharp curve of her ribs. “I like the underwear.”

The compliment accompanies the knit of those same fingers against the lace in question, drawing them down, then off entirely. “I am so  _glad_ ,” Widowmaker huffs, somewhere between disbelief and violent agitation.

“Shame it’s gotta’ go.”

Widowmaker doesn’t have an opportunity to retort. There’s no snide rejoinder, no rolling eyes or exasperated sigh; all she has is the portentous silence between breaths, then the sudden warmth of Sombra’s tongue that she’s only too eager to meet with a slow roll of her hips.

They fall into a steady rhythm, a discourse on pleasure spoken exclusively in a coarse language of need. Sombra is, as always and in everything, both unrelenting and eminently perceptive; each time Widowmaker dares to try and catch her breath, she finds only its absence as the hacker curls her tongue against her, teases, coaxes. Sombra is nudging her toward a cliff, the same edge she has courted for days now, and she can feel that fissure beginning to collapse in on itself with every measured stroke.

“Do not. Change. A thing,” she breathes, and Sombra complies with enthusiasm until there is only the sound of her heart in her ears, just a hair faster than it should be, and a snarl of heat and clenched muscles as she comes.

She waits a second, then another. She waits for something, anything: a coy remark or the usual kiss pressed against the inside of her thigh, but neither expectation is fulfilled. In that ringing silence, she finds only the sound of her unsteady breathing and the uncoiling of sensitive muscles in tentative increments. She eases her fingers from around the headboard grating and flexes them, wriggling away the vague prickle of blood as it creeps back into whitened knuckles that she has to force to unlock.

That’s when Sombra leans up on one elbow and slowly presses a finger into her with such cruel deliberation she has to practically tell herself not to scream.

“ _Sombra_ -,” she keens, scrabbling for the headboard again.

“Yeah?” the hacker asks, and though she can’t see it, she can hear the smile in her voice. “This okay?”

Sombra, of course, knows the answer, adds another finger, curls them experimentally, and presses: gently at first, then harder, then not at all.

“—yes,” Widowmaker manages, “but—,”

“You  _sure_?” She withdraws; not entirely, but enough that the sniper has to grind against her to attain any sort of satisfaction.

“Yes.”

“Sorry, do you want me to stop?” Now she is gone completely, and Widowmaker finds herself frantically questioning whether the right combination of leverage and force can break the clasp adhering the cuffs.

“ _Nom de Dieu, Sombra, I will fucking kill you_ —,”

But Sombra doesn’t listen, doesn’t heed her threat as she trails kisses, her teeth, both in a lazy path from her hip upwards, pausing to unzip the front of that  _bustier stupide_  before she finally kisses her, and it is the softest, deepest, most infuriating kiss she has ever experienced, and she returns it fervently. This is the only purchase Sombra permits her: the shaky press of lips, the brief meeting of tongues, and the faint taste of herself between breaths before the hacker finally acquiesces to her frustration and presses those same two fingers into her, just as slowly as before.

Her motions are deft and precise, massaging her core as she presses the heel of her hand against her clit. “Sorry, you were saying?” she sneers against the corner of her mouth, punctuating the question with a single, firm stroke that feels like lightning. “Because it  _seems_  like you’re not really in a position to kill me.”

Widowmaker can’t find any words, and her fragmented attempts only manifest as broken groans she tries to stifle against the hacker’s shoulder.

“Oh,  _that’s_ a sound. Do  _that_ again,” she smirks, pressing harder now, faster.  Widowmaker arches into her touch, grinds desperately against it, comes again with a breathless cry that leaves her panting against Sombra’s neck and leaving tired kisses against flushed skin.

Sombra ducks her head, meets those voiceless “thank you”s with her own lips, then settles neatly against her side, one arm curled about the sniper’s waist.

“Are you going to undo these?” Widowmaker asks after a spell, the words punctuated by the sound of metal on metal as she gives the cuffs a single tug.

“ _Hell_  no. We’re not done,” Sombra laughs. “Not by a long shot.”


	2. Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By K. 
> 
> Prompts: leaving marks, Widow-centric.

There is a beauty to the way bruises form beneath the skin, a sense of impressionistic artistry that Widowmaker appreciates on the periphery of their trysts.

Impressionism, she thinks, feels appropriate: an impasto of perfect crescents against the side of Sombra’s neck, of measured, raised lines that start at her shoulders and trace the delicate curve of her back. The colors remind her faintly of sunset, a mix of purple and hues a shade darker, lighter, redder than the norm. Though they comprise no singular image, she is happy to interpret their form through an appreciative lens of function alone.

The work is hers, after all, and she has always considered pride a necessary element of expression.

It is not merely the end result she enjoys, but the process. She’d dare say she prefers it over inevitable outcome, no matter how beautiful or striking. It is the act of creation itself that brings them together, after all - where the grazing of teeth against the hollow of Sombra’s throat drags a gasp from somewhere far beyond, makes her curl shaking fingers in the sniper’s endless, dark hair. She relishes those moments, watching the flush of red blossom across the other woman’s skin, a ghost of her affection that lingers long after they part.

Maybe that is what she appreciates most: not the art itself, but its implications. Though these marks never endure for long - hours at least, days to a week at most - there are subtexts informing their presence as much as their evanescence. When extant - when Widowmaker catches a glimpse of blooming violet creeping from beneath the collar of the hacker’s coat, when she rediscovers some nearly-gone arc set against the inside of her thigh - they are a reminder, a memorial that serves as a testament to hurried breaths and searing wants gratified in earnest. As they fade, their meaning shifts; they are a promise and a prelude, their looming absence an agreement to revisit this or that work that is as loud as it is unspoken.

Sometimes, in the small hours of the night, she catches Sombra standing before the mirror, soft fingertips pressed against one of those reminders in a muted act of consideration. Widowmaker never says anything, only watches, golden eyes cutting through the shadows as she lays coiled beneath the sheets. There is a certain method to the consumption of art, and moreso to its voyeuristic elements - to watching  _others_  explore and engage with one’s creation; the sniper knows this, and permits Sombra the space to contemplate uninterrupted. She tests each bruise, traces each line and welt with care, a smile flirting with the edge of her lip that Widowmaker feels almost indecent for seeing, so secret is that expression of pleasure.

But there is pride, too, in that salacious, fleeing moment, just as there is in her own reflections. She questions its origins as Sombra returns, treading lightly across the room and sliding into bed beside her. The art she appreciates most is more than the sum of its craft and intent, more than the mere expression of one being; the best art, she thinks, offers unique opportunities for engagement with its audience. What she leaves Sombra is not remarkable for its form alone; it is singular in that it brings someone else enjoyment. It is for Sombra as much as it is herself, and that sets it apart entirely from the body of her work.

She can’t quite call it a masterpiece, or even complete. But she has never been happier to take on such a considerable work in progress.


End file.
